The Protector's Daughter
by Pickwick12
Summary: My name is Katherine. The day I was kidnapped is the day I met my father, John Reese, for the very first time. This is my story. Check out a new companion story about Harold called The Cipher's Daughter.
1. Becoming a Number

Becoming a Number

I didn't know I was a Number. I didn't know what it meant to be a Number. I just knew when everything changed.

The morning was windy, like so many others in early October, so I wrapped my purple jacket around me tightly as I got out of the blue Mazda. I waited an extra second, hoping Aunt Judy would say goodbye or wish me luck, but she didn't. She never did. I was lucky if she looked at me. She didn't this morning.

I braced myself against the morning chill and started to walk around the red brick school building. I didn't see any of my friends, so I walked alone. I felt a funny feeling in my stomach when I passed the row of overgrown plants that hugged the elementary school side. Later on, I would wonder if I'd heard or seen something subconsciously, but at the time, I just walked faster, wishing more people were around, but most of the other kids were already inside.

As I rounded the back of the building, I heard three noises in succession: heavy feet coming up behind me, a pistol being cocked, and heavy breathing. Instinctively, I tried to turn around, but I felt something pressing into my neck. "This is a gun," said a low voice. "Don't make noise and keep walking, or I'll kill you right here." I didn't seem to be in any spot to argue, so I did as he said, changing direction only when he told me. I tried to figure out a way to let the few stragglers still outside know that something was wrong, but I couldn't think of anything. My brain was paralyzed with surprise and fear.

Finally, a few blocks from the school, the gunman pushed me toward a dark gray car, some kind of nondescript sedan. Another man was leaning against it, and he stood up straight when he saw me. "This her?"

"Of course it's her, you moron. Would I have taken the wrong one?" answered the irritated voice of my captor as he herded me toward the car door.

"I dunno, just, how can we be sure she's really his?" The second man was less resolute, twitchy even.

"Elias says she's the one. He knows." My kidnapper spoke in the manner of someone who has already explained the same thing several times and is about ready to assault the asker.

"Ok, all right," answered the other, in conciliatory tones. "I don't want this on my record for nothing."

"That doesn't matter," said the other as he tied my hands with twine. "Elias can take care of records."

My kidnapper, who was short and stocky, took his place behind the wheel, and his associate, who was taller and thinner, sat in the passenger's seat and stole worried glances back at me every few seconds. I didn't say anything. Better not to give them anything to latch onto, I thought. It was a technique I'd been using with my uncle for ages, and it worked pretty well.

We drove through Manhattan, and I wished I'd paid more attention to landmarks instead of drifting off into a daydream every time I was in the car. I noticed we seemed to be hitting a lot of lights red, and finally, when we were stopped at the fourth one in a row, the jumpier of the kidnappers finally growled in frustration and smacked the dash of the car.

"Don't worry," said the other one drily, "no one knows she's even gone. It's not like we're in any danger right now." Except, it turns out that what he said was really, really ironic.

We were turning the corner into a small side street when suddenly, a huge black SUV came barreling down on us, followed by a station wagon. You know how you can tell when another driver is after you and not just in a rush to get where they're going? Well, maybe you can't always, but it was pretty obvious this time. Our driver didn't have any time to react. Within seconds, we were pinned to the wall by both cars, and the drivers were getting out with guns trained on us—well, not _us_, just the two kidnappers.

The driver of the SUV was tall and broad-shouldered and wearing a suit like a superhero from a movie. The other driver was short and pale and looked like he wasn't too keen on the gun in his hand.

"Let her go," said the SUV driver. "We won't do anything to you if you let her go." His voice was barely more than a whisper, but its determination was chilling.

"Fine by me," said the jumpier kidnapper immediately.

"Deal's off unless you both agree," said the taller man again, enunciating each whispery word with steel.

The stockier kidnapper waited a moment and seemed to be fighting with himself before shrugging. "Elias will find her," he said, before turning around and following his associate away from the scene. I stared after them, unable to process what was happening and the fact that I was free.

"Hello, Katherine." I looked up and into the eyes of the taller man, who was smiling. "I'm John, and this is my friend Harold. We've come to take you away."

_Great_, I thought, _I'm being kidnapped again by someone else._

The shorter man, who wore a three-piece suit and small-framed glasses, shook his head in exasperation. "Can't you see you're only frightening her more, Mr. Reese?" He smiled at me. "I'm Harold, and this is John. You're in danger, I'm afraid, and we're going to take you somewhere safe." This didn't really help me feel better, but he seemed to mean well.

I followed Harold and John to the SUV, and John gave me a lift inside like I was three years old. The important things were all confused in my brain, so the one manageable thing I settled on as we drove away was wondering what they were going to do about their other car. What kind of crazy person ditches a perfectly good station wagon? I wondered.

"Are you comfortable?" Harold asked after a few minutes. I just stared at him. It hadn't occurred to me to think about it.

"I'm…fine." I certainly didn't want to draw attention to myself.

"Leave her alone, Harold," said John, "she's had a tough morning." John understood. I was starting to see that there were things Harold understood and other things John understood, but it was hard to predict which was which.

John drove to a really posh hotel in the Upper East Side, a hotel I'd seen a few times but never been inside. It was the kind of place movie stars liked to stay. He stopped at the entrance and gave the keys to one of those guys who parks cars—a valet—and came around to let me out of the back and give me another boost onto the ground. If I had dared, I would have rolled my eyes at him. Harold followed behind, a little more slowly. He had a limp, the kind that looks permanent instead of the kind you get from a sprain or a break.

We went inside, and I followed Harold and John into the glass elevator, wishing I knew what was going on and what in the world they planned to do with me. It didn't occur to me to ask. It was always best to stay silent, I thought.

The two men didn't speak either, though their silence didn't seem to be a tense one. I wondered what sort of kidnappers they could possibly be, certainly a different caliber from the ones of the morning. They didn't seem intent on hurting me, at least, and that was something.

I didn't look at either of them head-on, but when I could, I stole a look out of the corner of my eye. Harold was compact and meticulous, with a determined expression and strange blue eyes that seemed to see everything and file it away, as if he were a computer sorting data. John was strikingly handsome; even a little girl could tell that. His face was closed, inscrutable. I had no idea what kind of thoughts he had.

John and Harold didn't leave the elevator until the top floor of the hotel, and I noticed that Harold looked around carefully before the three of us entered the wide hallway. It was luxurious, with thick red carpet and glass lamps that hung from the ceiling. John walked close beside me, and Harold led the way to a door that had the number 330 on it. I knew it had to be a penthouse because we had passed only one other door in the long hallway. I had a read a book once in which a character lived in a penthouse, and for a second, my desire to see what was inside almost competed with my fear.

Harold opened the door with some kind of plastic card and a code that he punched into a number pad by the doorframe and led the way inside. I stopped dead at the entrance for a few seconds, taking in the impossibly high ceilings, stone flooring, thickly overstuffed furniture, and huge dining room.

"Nice, eh?" said John softly. I hadn't noticed he was at my elbow. "Harold doesn't skimp on luxuries; I'll give him that."

"Not when we're on a mission, Mr. Reese," said Harold without annoyance. "Come inside and have a seat, Katherine, and I'll try to make all of this a little clearer."

I did as I was told, coming into the sumptuous living room and taking a seat on the edge of a tan sofa opposite Harold, who was sitting in a wing chair and typing on a laptop.

"There's a man named Elias," he began, and I perked up, remembering my kidnappers' morning conversation. "He's a criminal, and he's trying to kidnap you. Mr. Reese—John—and I found out you were a target this morning. Our information came a little late, so we had to improvise. I'm sorry we couldn't warn you ahead of time." Mr. Reese had been hovering somewhere behind the sofa, but I heard a ding and saw him reach for a cell phone as he disappeared into the recesses of one of the rooms I hadn't seen.

"Why does Elias want me?" I asked. Harold looked surprised, as if he hadn't expected me to believe him so quickly. "I heard the other guys talking about it before," I said, by way of explanation.

"I don't know that yet," Harold said apologetically, "but I'm going to have to keep you here until I find out."

"What about my aunt and uncle?"

"They'll receive proof that you're safe, and that will have to be enough for now. If you were with them, it would put them in danger."

"Finch—" John came into the room just then, looking genuinely upset, far more than he had during the morning's standoff. He jerked his head in the direction of the hallway, and Finch rose slowly.

"Sit tight, Katherine, Mr. Reese and I need to talk." He raised an eyebrow and gave a not-entirely-pleased look to his associate as he limped over to join him. I stared at my hands in my lap and tried to look uninterested until they disappeared; then, as noiselessly as I could, I followed.

I tiptoed to the door on the right side of the hall, the one I thought they'd disappeared into. Sure enough, I could hear quiet voices. I stood as still as I could and gradually began to make out sounds.

"—Carter. She says it's definitely them," said Reese's voice.

"This is definitely not what we had planned," answered Harold.

"How do we tell her they're dead, Finch? They're the only thing she has."

I started to put two-and-two together, though I didn't want to. I stopped trying to make out the words, willing myself not to hear them. My aunt and uncle weren't the best people in the world, but they were someone—someone who belonged to me. When Harold opened the door, I was huddled on the floor with my arms around my knees, trying to be as small as possible.

"No need to tell her now," said John, with more sadness than annoyance. He picked me up effortlessly and took me back to the sofa. I didn't look at him.

The three of us sat silently in the living room, Harold in his chair and me and John on opposite ends of the sofa. I didn't ask what had happened, and Harold and John neither one volunteered the information. All I could think about was that it was my fault. Aunt Judy might have ignored me and Uncle Robert might have yelled, but they hadn't deserved _this_, and I was the one being hunted by some kind of criminal. I wished Elias had found me instead.

Harold broke the silence after a very long time. "I'm going to find out why this happened, and then we're going to stop it from happening again."

John put out a tentative hand and touched my hair, so lightly I could hardly feel it. "We're going to keep you safe," he said. "I know it doesn't fix anything, but you don't have to be afraid."


	2. Two Men

Two Men

I wanted nothing more than to be alone, so I pulled away from John's hand and walked into the hallway, which had a bedroom on either side of it. I picked the one that looked like it hadn't been lived-in, went inside, and closed the door. I lay down on the cream-colored bedspread and stared at the ceiling. It was only ten in the morning, but in the past two hours, my life had completely changed. I had no idea where I would live, what I would do, or who would take care of me.

Life with Aunt Judy and Uncle Robert hadn't been amazing, but I'd at least had a house and food. Now, I supposed, I would go into foster care, something I had only ever read about or heard about on the news.

After a while, I started to feel sleepy. I hadn't slept well the previous night because Uncle Robert had come home drunk and loud, so I guess I was making up for lost time. It's hard to believe someone can be as worried and confused as I was and still fall asleep, but I did.

I woke up to a tap on the door and heard Harold's voice. "I'm going to get room service, Katherine, would you like something?" I got up and came out, rubbing my sleepy eyes. Harold looked me up and down with a concerned expression, but John was nowhere to be found. "Mr. Reese has gone to gather some information," the bespectacled Harold offered as a not-very-satisfying explanation.

"Ok," I answered.

He handed me a room service menu, and I selected a hamburger and French fries. Comfort food for a terrible day. Harold ordered sushi.

"Here," he said, as I settled back onto the sofa, "I've brought over an X-box for you to play with." I stared at the gaming console he'd handed me. I didn't like video games. "I thought it would be boring for you here," he continued, slightly apologetic.

"It's ok," I said, hitting the power button. It was better than nothing.

By the time lunch arrived, I was actually into the game, a first-person shooter that was probably technically inappropriate for someone my age, with its emphasis on slaying zombies in the goriest manner possible. It was kind of satisfying, though.

Harold and I ate at the dining table in the suite's kitchen area, an area that was about as big as the entirety of a normal hotel room. "Is it good?" asked my companion after a few bites.

"Yeah," I said. I'd have probably lied if it wasn't, to keep from making waves, but it was.

My companion smiled unexpectedly. "I like you," he said. "You remind me of John."

"Is that good?" I asked curiously. He didn't seem easily annoyed, so I hoped he wouldn't mind the question.

"Not good or bad," he answered, deftly raking up rice with his chopsticks, "it just is."

I decided that I liked Harold, too, with his old-fashioned clothes and owlish way of looking at me. He seemed kind of removed, like somebody who doesn't want to have his privacy invaded, but he was kind. He treated me exactly as if I were his own age, and I knew very few adults who did that.

"Do you like to read?" he asked after a pause.

"Yeah," I said, not meaning to put as much enthusiasm into the word as I did.

"Good," said Harold, not volunteering any more information. I kind of hoped it meant something.

Once we'd finished eating, Harold called room service again, and they cleared everything away. I wondered what it would be like to have enough money to call someone whenever anything practical needed doing. I would like that, I thought, then I could read and think all the time and not worry about chores.

Harold settled back into his chair with his laptop, and I was just getting the hang of slaying zombies with a laser crossbow when John arrived back at the suite, looking just as impeccable as he had in the morning. His uncreased white shirt and unscuffed black shoes made it seem like he'd done nothing more challenging than sitting at a desk in an office.

"Hi, Katherine," he said, nodding to me as soon as he came inside. "Harold, I need to talk to you. Privately."

He looked back at me, not exactly stern, but definitely firm. "This time, it's really going to be private." I nodded. Challenging either Harold or John directly wasn't on my to-do list, especially not John, who seemed like he would be the stricter of the two if he was crossed.

They disappeared back into one of the bedrooms again, and I turned off the game, hoping I could hear something. They couldn't fault me for overhearing from the living room, could they? I was out of luck, though, and they stayed away so long that I had started to absently pick at the tassels on the sofa pillows by the time they came back.

They both looked weird. Harold was even paler than usual, and John seemed off-kilter. Even in the short time I'd known them, I'd come to expect them to be totally in control. It was oddly obvious that something had rattled them, and it scared me.

"I'm—going to go out for coffee," said Harold awkwardly.

"Fine," said John, as if he hardly knew what he was saying. He was staring at me pretty intensely, and I started to hope I hadn't accidentally done something to irritate him. I wondered why Harold wanted coffee when he'd just finished a cup with his lunch.

John sat down across from me in Harold's winged chair and crossed and uncrossed his legs nervously. I looked anywhere but at him. Finally, he cleared his throat quietly. "Katherine, Harold and I have figured out why you're Elias's target." Startled, I looked up and found his eyes, but it didn't make sense to me that the news had shaken him even more than it rattled me.

"It's not just that," he continued. "Do you know what DNA is?"

"Sure," I said. The question seemed weirdly out of place in the current conversation, but I certainly didn't plan to point it out.

"Did you know your mom?" Another strange question.

"I don't remember her," I said. "She died when I was two, and Aunt Judy took me in because they were friends, even though she didn't want to." I knew this because Aunt Judy had told me plenty of times, usually when she was trying to make me feel especially bad about something.

"Right," said John abruptly, rubbing his forehead. He leaned forward and held my gaze, his eyes intense. "Katherine, a long time ago, your mom was my girlfriend."

"Huh?" I said, before I could catch myself and form a more coherent response.

"I was in the army, and she worked at the base where I was stationed. We broke up after I was sent overseas. I didn't hear from her any more, but she was pregnant."

Interesting, I though. I knew very little about my mom, and I kind of liked hearing more. It was a weird coincidence, but if John had known her, I was willing to listen to him talk about it all day, just so I could feel a little closer to her.

"I mean—" he hesitated—"she was pregnant with you. Because of me."

I didn't get it right away. It was just words. A story. Something that had nothing to do with me. Except that it was about me, my mom, and the man in the chair in front of me.

I didn't say anything, so he went on. "Harold had a DNA test done, yours and mine. You can see the results."

I shook my head. "It's ok." I didn't want to hear any more. It was too much to take all at one time. I was tempted to put my hands over my ears like a little kid, but I was twelve years old, so I got up and went into the dark back bedroom instead. John didn't try to stop me, and for that I was glad.


	3. Dad

Dad

What kid doesn't think about their dad at some point, at least by the time they're old enough to understand what one is? I surely had, from the time I was six. I had always known that Uncle Robert wasn't my real dad, and it was a relief, since his version of fathering was a lot of yelling and sending me to my room to get me out of his hair.

When I was six, it dawned on me that I had to have a real father somewhere. Maybe he was dead, like my mom, but no one had ever told me anything about him, so I asked Aunt Judy. She told me she didn't know and to stop asking questions and bugging her, so I kept my thoughts to myself from then on. I learned what fathers did out of books, and I liked to imagine that my favorite ones were my very own. Maybe my dad was a miner, like Curdie's dad in _The Princess and Curdie_, a book that stayed under my pillow for a while. Maybe he was somebody rich, like Sara's father in _The Little Princess_. Because I didn't know for sure, I could imagine anything. It was my favorite thing to do just before I went to sleep—until I was nine.

That year, I realized that it wasn't enough. No matter how hard I tried to imagine having a dad, it wasn't the same as the real thing. By then I had seen friends with their dads, all kinds of men—tall, short, thin, heavy, balding, young, middle-aged—it didn't matter because they belonged to each other. Even the ones who weren't that great, at least they were around, and I was jealous.

I wanted to be Jessica, whose white-haired dad always picked her up from school and bought her ice cream, or Kelly, whose dad was a businessman who took her on trips around the world. Even Jenny had it better than I did—her dad was really strict, but he always gave her a hug before she got on the school bus, the kind of hug that means somebody really cares. I didn't have somebody like that and I knew I never would, so I made myself stop wishing.

By the time I was twelve, I'd convinced myself I didn't need a dad. I'd had a mom who cared enough to at least try to provide for someone to take care of me, and that would have to do. I thought maybe, if I was lucky, I would fall in love some day the way people did in movies and books, but wouldn't matter because I had myself, and that was enough.

Except, my DNA matched John Reese's, and that meant—What did it mean? I stared at the white hotel bedroom ceiling and tried to figure it out. I wasn't alone after all. It was a weird feeling, as if I had been drifting through space and suddenly crashed into something—a safe thing, maybe, but the crash still hurt.

I thought of John's face after a while, and I realized he hadn't seemed upset, just nervous. Nervous? He was nervous for me, I realized with a bit of a jolt. He'd been afraid of how I would react. It was strangely comforting.

After a while, I heard a light tap on the door and a quiet voice. "May I come in?"

"Ok," I said, sort of wishing I was hidden under the covers instead of lying on top of them.

John came into the room, looking more relaxed without his suit coat or shoes. He sat on the edge of the bed. "Hi Katherine."

"Hi."

"Anything you want to say?"

I hoped this wasn't one of those times when an adult was speaking in a certain way because I was supposed to answer back in a certain way, but it didn't seem like it.

"You're my dad." It was weird to say it out loud, but easier to say to the ceiling than to him.

"That's right," he said quietly. I stole a look over at him, and I realized that he had regained his composure and was perfectly calm. I was glad. "It's ok if you're upset," his soft voice continued.

"I'm not upset," I said, surprising myself, but knowing it was true as I said it. I sat up and turned toward him. "Are you upset?"

"Not at all," he said, tracing my cheekbone with his thumb, which made me smile inadvertently. "That's the first time I've seen you smile," he said. "I like it." He put his arms around me then, and I returned his hug by wrapping my arms around his middle and leaning into him.

This was a father, I realized—cologne and warmth and safety and love—my dad. He wasn't an imaginary concept any more. He was John, with his soft voice and strong hands and the firmness that meant I wasn't going to get away with anything while he was around, the eyes that could be scary but weren't, and the arms that could have hurt me but protected me instead. Even then, I realized I was lucky.

Harold got back to the suite an hour later, and I saw a look of visible relief cross his face when he found John and me in the living room, talking and laughing like old friends.

"Everything all right?" he asked.

"It's all right, Harold," said John, smiling at me. I nodded.

"Mr. Reese, I think you should let Detective Carter know about this latest development."

"Right," said John succinctly, grabbing his phone and going into one of the other rooms. Harold sat down and faced me, searching my eyes.

"Are you sure you're all right, Katherine?" he asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

"Yeah," I said, feeling a little bit embarrassed by the attention. "But—why is Elias after me?"

"I'm afraid it's because of your father," he replied. "You're young to hear this, but you already know he was trying to kidnap you. Elias knows that your father is a very capable man, and he's been trying for a while to either hire him or get rid of him. Of course, your dad wouldn't have it." I liked hearing good things about John. It made something inside me feel warm.

"Anyway, I'm not sure of his exact intentions this time, but I'd imagine he wanted to arrange some kind of ransom—your dad's services in exchange for your life or something like that."

"Way to scar her for life, Harold." John's voice broke into the conversation, and I looked up and realized he was standing behind the sofa, staring at the other man with a disapproving expression.

"It's ok," I said, a little too quickly. I was scared of conflict; in my experience, it was as uncontainable and destructive as a wildfire.

John put a hand on my shoulder. "I'm not upset. I just don't want Harold to frighten you."

Harold smiled. "I'm glad to see you being fatherly, Mr. Reese."

The rest of the afternoon, I played video games and read old tech magazines Harold gave me while he worked on his computer and my dad went somewhere—to find Fusco, whoever that was.

For once, I was glad to have the silly addictiveness of the game controller to distract me. I seemed to have reached some kind of mental saturation point, and I couldn't think about things any more. Between finding out that my aunt and uncle were dead and that John was my father, I couldn't handle all the emotions, so I put them somewhere inside and didn't feel them.

We had a late dinner as soon as John came back, a pizza Harold ordered just because I'd told him it was my favorite food. The two men talked about things I didn't understand, and I made little effort to follow the conversation because I was starting to realize how tired I was.

"Is it ok if I go to sleep?" I asked, as soon as we were finished eating and I could get a word in between Harold's and John's conversation. They both looked at me, and I got scared that I had said the wrong thing.

"You want to go to bed?" John sounded incredulous.

"It's ok," I said quickly. "I can stay up."

"You can sleep in one of your father's t-shirts," Harold put in quickly. "I'm sorry we weren't able to get your things. We'll see what we can do tomorrow." I looked at John to make sure he wasn't mad, but he smiled, a nice smile that went all the way up into his eyes, and I felt better.

Harold called the front desk and got me a toothbrush and toothpaste, and John gave me a large blue t-shirt that was clean but smelled faintly like his cologne, a warm, spicy smell that made me think of Christmas. I liked it.

Harold told me the bedroom with the cream-colored bedspread could be mine, so I went inside and took off my uniform, feeling like I'd put it on weeks before. I could hardly believe I'd actually been to school that morning.

John knocked on the door after a few minutes. "Are you ready to sleep?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said, totally unsure what he was after. He opened the door and came inside, sitting on the edge of the bed next to me.

"I—came to tuck you in," he said.

"Oh," I answered. My aunt and uncle had never put me to bed, and anyway, nobody gets tucked in when they're twelve, at least nobody I knew. I figured John didn't know that. He didn't seem to know all that much about kids, really.

"Are you comfortable?" he asked.

"Uh huh," I answered, looking up at him in the half-dark of the moonlight. He smoothed the hair off my forehead and bent down and gave me a kiss.

"Sleep well, Katherine. I'll be on the couch in the living room if you need anything." There was no way I would ever wake him, but I was glad he'd offered anyway. He turned and left the room, and I smiled into my pillow. I liked being tucked in, I decided. I hoped it would take him a while to figure out I was too old.

I fell asleep quickly, as usual, but a couple of hours later, I had a horrible nightmare. I was reliving my kidnapping, but instead of being rescued, I was being taken to Elias, and I knew I was going to die. I woke up breathing heavily, and when I opened my eyes, John was at the door to my room. I realized I must have made noise, though I hadn't meant to. I scrunched deeper into my blankets as he crossed the space from the door to the bed. I had no idea what he would do to me for waking him up, and I really didn't want to find out.

"Try to stay quiet now," he whispered as he sat down next to me. "Harold's a heavier sleeper than I am, but his body really needs rest." He didn't sound angry, so I relaxed a little bit. The fear returned when he stood up and leaned over me, but I realized after a few seconds what he was doing—smoothing the sheet and blanket over me because I had twisted them all together in my sleep. When he was done, he sat down again.

"Would you like to talk about your nightmare?" he asked.

"No," I said, hoping he wouldn't force me.

"Ok," he said. "I have nightmares too. Sometimes it helps to talk about it." I didn't answer. "Would you rather I left?" he asked softly, smoothing the hairs that had crept back over my forehead. I shook my head.

"No—please stay." I didn't want to sound scared, but I was, and I knew he could tell.

Wordlessly, he gathered me up and pulled me into his arms. "It's ok," he whispered, "you're safe now. Listen to my breathing and match yours to mine." I did what he said, making my quick, shallow breaths mirror his slow, steady ones, until it was easy and I felt calm. I could hear his heartbeat under my ear, and it made me feel calm, too, like a slow, quiet lullaby.

When I was nearly asleep, John laid me back down and pulled the blanket over me, but he didn't leave, and I was glad. I would find out later that the technique he'd used to calm me was one the CIA had taught him, but that night I was just amazed that anyone cared enough to comfort me.


	4. Fairy Godfather

Fairy Godfather

When I woke up in the morning, John was sitting in a chair beside the bed, dozed off with his head at an awkward angle and his hair all mussed, dressed in pajama pants and a t-shirt. A far cry from the suit-clad ninja who had disrupted my kidnapping the day before. I watched him for a minute, trying to wrap my head around the fact that he was my father, but he woke up almost instantly, as if he sensed my attention.

"You're still here," I said.

"Of course," he answered, rubbing his eyes. "You had some more bad dreams." He didn't elaborate, and I was glad I didn't remember them.

"Thanks," I said simply, and he smiled and left the room. In a moment, I heard a light tap on the door, and Harold's voice greeted me. "Good morning, Katherine. I've bought some things you might need." I opened the door, and he handed me three huge shopping bags from pricey New York boutiques I'd never been inside. "I hope some of it's usable," he said, a dubious note in his voice.

I opened the bags and nearly shrieked. They were filled to the brim with sweaters, skirts, pants, shoes, tights, even headbands, jewelry, and handbags. And they were all my size. Looking around, I realized my school uniform was nowhere to be found, and I understood. Harold had taken my clothes to find out my sizes.

One of my favorite books a few years before had been _A Little Princess_, and for the first time, I knew how Sara Crewe must have felt. It was very obvious Harold hadn't worried about price or excess. Some of it was downright ridiculous—dresses fit for the symphony or the kind of party I had never attended. But all of it was special. It was clear Harold hadn't just bought everything in sight. Sweaters with especially soft fabric, a t-shirt with a laughing elephant, a ruffled cardigan, polka-dotted tights. These things had been individually selected, every one of them.

I put on a green sweater over a pink t-shirt, a ruffled brown skirt, and a pair of matching green tights with tiny frogs on them, then looked through a whole bag of shoes to find the perfect pair. There were running shoes, silly high heels, loafers, boots, everything a girl could want. I selected a pair of leather mary janes with tiny hearts etched into the toes and then went and stood in front of the full-length mirror behind the door.

I had never in my life worn anything so expensive or silly—or pretty. Determined, I opened the door and went into the living room. Harold was at the coffee maker, pouring himself a cup. I strode over to him, wrapped my arms around his waist, and hugged him as hard as I could. He looked down at me in owlish surprise before curling an arm around me and patting my back.

"Thanks, Harold," I said, grinning against his shoulder.

"You're very welcome, young lady," he answered, and I could tell he was pleased.

John came out of the bathroom then, back in his usual dress shirt—dark purple this time—and black suit pants, looking immaculate. "Not bad, Harold," he said when he saw me. "That looks far more like her than a school uniform." He didn't say anything to me, but his eyes were warm when he looked at me and said everything for him.

"I bought a few other things," said Harold, a little shy since my display of affection. He handed me another large bag, this one heavier, and I opened it and found stacks of books. My eyes widened, and I suddenly felt like I wanted to hug every single one and cry.

"Goodness, Harold, you should feed her before you send her into shock," said John, amusement in his voice. I looked up with teary eyes and grinned at them both. My dad hadn't been wrong, though, I was hungry. I looked around for the room service menu, assuming Harold would want to do things the way we had been, but John walked over and put a warm hand on my shoulder.

"Would you like to go out for breakfast?" he asked.

"Is it safe?' I asked, realizing a moment later that it was probably silly to ask, as if Harold and John wouldn't have thought of that.

"Mr. Reese will keep you within a couple of blocks, and I'll be on the phone at all times," Harold interjected. "Your father will make sure nothing untoward happens. We don't want you to get stir crazy before all this is over."

"Ok," I answered. Breakfast with John—my dad—a new adventure.


	5. Names

Names

I was tempted to stand on tiptoe and kiss Harold before John and I left the suite, but my unexpected hug seemed to have unsettled him enough, so I restrained myself. I didn't think he'd have minded, though, not really. Even at twelve I knew that a man who buys a girl pink polka-dotted tights is hardly likely to have a hard heart. But I let John's quiet "Bye, Harold" be enough and followed him into the hallway.

We were the only two people on the elevator, and John didn't say anything. He seemed unused to making random conversation, and I was still shy around him, so I didn't speak either. When we arrived at the bottom floor, John reached out and took my left hand in his right and held it as he walked toward the hotel's exit. Slightly annoyed, I took it back. For the first time since I'd met John, I was seriously tempted to remind him that I wasn't a child.

"It's safer this way," he breathed softly, wrapping his fingers around mine again. I was still a bit piqued, but I didn't pull away.

We walked for a block and a half, and John led me into a little diner with scarred tables and seats with the leather peeling away. An elderly waitress brought menus and grinned when she saw him. "Hello, John, nice to see you with a friend today." She winked as she walked away, and I could almost see the beginning of a blush on his face.

"You must come here a lot," I said, looking at the breakfast menu, which had everything from pancakes to burritos.

"Harold likes the eggs benedict," he said, "but I like the omelet with cheese."

"I hate eggs," I said, finding the pancake section.

"Good to know," said John's soft voice. I looked up from the menu and met his eyes, feeling a little bit sorry for my earlier annoyance. Just then, the waitress brought orange juice for me and coffee for him, along with a large basket of southern-style biscuits.

After a few minutes of contented munching (I was hungrier than I'd realized), John put down his chipped mug. "Katherine, we need to talk," he said. I was instantly on alert, worried that I had finally messed something up.

"We need to think about what happens after we take care of making you safe."

"Oh," I said. This was it, then, another person who didn't want me.

"I was wondering—" he stared at his silverware—"how you would feel about staying with me—permanently."

"Oh," I said again, feeling like I was about to be overwhelmed by emotion.

"I know I'm not the greatest dad material, so if you'd rather do something else, I could ask Harold to find a family, or—"

"No," I said, surprised by my own vehemence. "I want to stay with you and Harold."

He smiled then, the tension broken. "Harold and I don't always live in the same place, but you won't be able to get away from him if you're with me."

"Ok," I said, relieved. "Do you want me to keep calling you John?" I felt shy asking.

"That's an important question," he said, looking at me playfully. "How about Dad?"

"Ok," I said softly. "What about Harold?"

"I have no idea. What do you want to call him?"

I thought about it for a little while, picturing the small man with his immaculate suits and his little glasses and his kind face. "Mr. H," I said, nodding decisively.

"All right," said my dad, leaning over and wiping jam off my face with the edge of his napkin. The man really had no idea how old twelve-year-olds were.

"Dad?" I said, trying out the word after a few bites of pancake.

"Yeah?"

"Who's Elias really?"

"Do you know what the Mafia is?"

I'd heard about them on TV, but I was sort of shaky on the details. "People who commit crimes?"

"Yeah," he said, "people who commit a lot of crimes and hire other people to help them. Elias is in charge of them."

"Why is he after us? Does he want you to work for him?"

"It's even more complicated than that," said my dad with a pained look. "I saved his life, on accident. Since then, we haven't been able to get out of each other's business. Finch and I save people; Elias puts them in danger. We can't help bumping into each other."

"That's what you do?" I asked. "You protect people like you're protecting me?"

He nodded. "That's about it. Usually, they don't turn out to be my children." I grinned without meaning to.

We went silent again as we finished eating. I liked my father's quietness. It was still and peaceful and safe, like the lake I'd swum in when I was eight and Aunt Judy sent me to camp in the mountains to get rid of me for the summer. I hated camp, but I loved escaping to the lake by myself and feeling the aloneness and the water wrap me in comfort. Being with my dad was like that, like being alone, except better.

He took my hand again as we left the restaurant, but this time I didn't mind.


	6. Grief

Grief

When we got back to the hotel room, Mr. H was in front of his computer as usual, but I looked over and saw that he was playing Risk, a strategy game about taking over countries and continents.

"Satisfying your desire for world domination, Harold?" asked my father, smirking.

"Detective Carter is on her way over with information, and I decided to rest my brain in the mean time."

"I've decided what to call you," I said, standing behind his left shoulder. He stopped playing and turned around.

"Yes?"

"Mr. H," I answered, suddenly feeling shy.

"Mr. H," he mused, "I like it."

"It suits you," my dad put in. "It sounds like a supervillain from James Bond."

"That was my second career choice," said the shorter man, smiling at his computer screen.

I settled onto the couch with one of the books Harold had bought me—a fairy tale called _The Ordinary Princess _that I hadn't read before.

"The cashier at the bookstore said it was her favorite at your age," Harold intoned, noticing my choice. "Nothing else to do until we talk to Carter," he continued, seeing my father's impatient pacing.

"You could read a book," I offered.

Dad smiled down at me from behind the sofa. "All right. Pick one out for me."

I rummaged through the bag, discarding anything with princesses or fairies or a pink cover. Finally, I settled on _Mrs. Mike_, a book I'd read before.

"Here," I said, handing it to him. "It's about a Canadian mountie."

"It looks romantic," he said, peering at the cover, which depicted a man and a woman on a sled together.

"Nothing wrong with that, Mr. Reese," Harold put in.

My dad shook his head and sat down next to me, but before he opened the book to start reading, he held out a long arm. "Come here. If I'm going to read, I need some help." I moved closer to him shyly, and he wrapped his arm around me. "That's better," he said. Mr. H let out a dry laugh.

We read for a half hour, and my dad was surprisingly focused once he got going. He could read a lot faster than I could, and he was pretty far into the book once we heard a tap on the door and an impatient female voice say, "Do you want me to come in or not?"

Harold limped over to the door before my dad could get up, and he opened it for a no-nonsense cop with a large gun. I knew how cops were; once or twice, they'd come to the house when Uncle Robert and Aunt Judy had particularly ugly arguments. They never did anything, though. They just listened and wrote things down and left. I didn't like them, but I didn't hate them, either. I just thought they were pretty useless.

I stood up because my dad did, and the lady cop gave us a going-over with her eyes. "You must be Katherine," she said immediately. Her stare wasn't unfriendly.

"Yeah," I said.

"She's too cute to be your kid," she said, looking up at my father and grinning. He smiled back, which surprised me a little.

"I thought we wouldn't be seeing you again, Detective," he intoned quietly.

"Let's just say desperate times call for desperate measures," she said, rolling her eyes. "Your partner here is very persuasive." I looked over at Mr H, who looked like he didn't want to smirk but couldn't help himself.

"Anyway, I'm sorry about your aunt and uncle, Honey," she said, nodding to me sympathetically.

"It's ok," I answered. It wasn't, but I didn't know what to say.

"I need to talk to the guys," she said, still looking at me. "Would you mind if we talked privately for a few minutes?" This was definitely one of those times I was being told, not asked, but at least she was polite.

"Ok," I said, turning toward the hallway. My dad stopped me with a hand on my shoulder and a look.

"No eavesdropping this time." I kind of wished he didn't already know me so well.

I took my book into the bedroom and read for a few minutes, but Detective Carter's comment about my aunt and uncle wouldn't go out of my head. Ever since I'd found out, I'd tried hard not to think about them, to keep them locked in a box in my mind that I didn't look into. I'd almost convinced myself I could manage that forever.

But I couldn't.

I couldn't make Aunt Judy's face or Uncle Robert's voice go out of my head. I wondered if I had loved them, and I couldn't tell. I wasn't even sure if I was sorry they were dead, and then I felt guilty. After all, Elias was after me, so I was the one responsible for putting them in danger. If it hadn't been for me, he would never have cared about them.

I thought so hard I didn't notice the time passing until my dad's voice at the bedroom door told me I could come back out. I came into the living room and saw Detective Carter at the door, ready to leave. "Nice to meet you, Katherine," she said. "I'll see you again some time."

"Ok," I said. She was pretty. Harold didn't seem to care, but my dad looked at her, and I wondered if he noticed.

"I have to go take care of some things," Dad said, once the detective was gone. "Harold will be here if you need anything."

"I know," I said, taking my place on the couch and watching my dad's back as he vanished into the hall.

Mr. H, small in the wing chair, typed endlessly on his laptop, and I tried to read again, but I couldn't. I put the book down after a while and stared at nothing, wishing I could stop imagining how my aunt and uncle had felt when they died.

"Are you all right, Katherine?" The question startled me. I hadn't meant for Harold to notice anything.

"I'm fine," I said, instantly belying my own words when I found it necessary to wipe my eyes on my sleeve.

"It's not your fault, you know—your aunt and uncle." He was definitely intuitive.

I nodded, trying to fight the tears that insisted on coursing down my cheeks. I hated to cry in front of people. Mr. H quietly put his laptop down and took a seat on the sofa.

He didn't touch me while I cried. He just sat beside me, silent and calm, like a rock in the middle of the waves of grief that washed over me. Finally, the storm ceased, as quickly as it had come, and I was still, empty and quiet. Harold moved then, until he was close enough to lean over and kiss my forehead and wipe my face with his thumb. Hoping he wouldn't mind, I buried my face in the front of his waistcoat and closed my eyes. He didn't say anything, but I felt an arm around my shoulders and a warm hand rub my back gently until I was calm again.


	7. Home

Home

I was still in Harold's arms when I heard the door open and looked up to see my father enter the suite. I saw right away that he no longer had his coat and that his shirt was torn, but the most gut-wrenching sight was his face, one side of which was covered in blood.

I looked at Harold, trying to get my bearings. "What happened, Mr. Reese?" His voice was reassuringly matter-of-fact.

"I had a disagreement with some of Elias's operatives," he said shortly, his voice not rising above its usual near-whisper. I watched him walk into the bathroom, feeling a little bit sick to my stomach.

When he came out after a few minutes, I could see that his injury wasn't as bad as I'd thought. A cut lip had been the source of the bleeding, but beyond that, he seemed mostly intact.

"I'm sorry if I scared you," he said, meeting my eyes before looking at Harold, who had resumed his usual seat. "We were wrong, Finch. We made a mistake."

"We?" questioned Harold drily. "You mean me, of course, the source of the information."

My dad looked genuinely annoyed. "It doesn't matter. The point is, Elias isn't after me; he's after you."

"What?" Mr. H looked genuinely shocked for a moment, but he quickly forced himself back to his usual appearance of calm.

"I got it out of one of them after some intense discussion," said Dad, pointing wryly to his lip.

"Are you sure, Mr. Reese?" asked Harold, and I could hear in his voice that he was still shaken, though he was trying not to seem like it.

"Totally sure. He meant to make you more vulnerable by using Katherine to take me out."

Harold stood up quickly. "We'll have to leave here, then. We have to split up and go into deeper hiding.

"Split up?" I hadn't said anything up to that point because I was smart enough to know when I should keep my mouth shut and let adults talk, but the thought of the three of us separating made an unexpectedly intense wave of apprehension shoot through me.

"I'm sorry," said Harold, stopping in the middle of frantically gathering his belongings. "You'll be the safest with your father. As long as we're together, we're all sitting targets."

"I'm not going to leave you alone to deal with this, Harold," said my dad, standing dead still in the middle of the room, the opposite of Mr. H's frenetic activity.

"No one said that, Mr. Reese," the other man responded, shutting his laptop into a padded case. "We'll just have to be more discreet about our association for the time being."

I was glad to hear Harold sounding like himself.

Before I had time to collect my thoughts, I found myself, my dad, and as many of the things Harold had bought me as we could carry, in a taxi bound for a house in the most expensive part of Manhattan. I didn't know where Harold was going. He wouldn't even tell my dad.

I wanted to know how they would get in touch with each other, but my dad wouldn't tell me. He was quiet, even more than usual, and his hand was constantly on the gun in his waistband in case anything went wrong on the taxi ride. I was afraid to say anything; his tenseness was like something I could taste in the air around me. I didn't want to make him angry; above all, I didn't want that.

Finally, after an uncomfortable forty-five minute ride through traffic, we found ourselves in a neighborhood like you see on tv in reality shows about rich people who never work. The taxi driver pulled up in front of a big white house and stopped, and I just stared. I couldn't believe it was where we were meant to stay.

My dad was used to it, I guess. He jumped out of the taxi right away and paid the driver before helping me with the bags, then took out a set of keys and walked up to the front door, just as if we owned the place. I tried to follow his example and look unsurprised, but I don't think I did a very good job.

Once inside, I just stood at the entrance to the house and stared. I had never seen anything like it. Uncle Robert and Aunt Judy had been lucky if they made rent; a few times they hadn't, and the threat of homelessness had been all too real (a threat Aunt Judy never failed to attribute to the cost of raising me). This house, though, was everything I had read about in books with lords and ladies and mansions that I'd never been able to visualize. It had a large curved staircase, an upper balcony, a giant kitchen with gleaming marble countertops, and the squishiest carpet I'd ever felt. Those were just the things I found at first glance.

I looked around for my dad after a little while, and I realized that he had gone into a large living room to the right of the house's entryway, a comfortable-looking room with a sofa and two overstuffed chairs. He was sprawled out on the couch, not asleep, but resting completely inert, bone-tired from whatever he'd been through with Elias's associates. Seeing him that way scared me even more than the blood. I sat down in one of the chairs and tried not to look at him, but my eyes kept being drawn back to his tired, worried face.

"Come here."

His voice was so quiet I hardly heard him, but I went over to the sofa obediently and stood in front of him. He sat up halfway and made room, and I sat down next to him.

"Don't be scared," he said. "I won't let anything happen to you. I promise." I still felt afraid, but I tried to smile. "Go pick a room," he continued. "There're tons to choose from."

"Can I—" I looked down at my hands—"Could I have one next to yours?"

"Of course. Just pick me a good one."


	8. Privacy

Privacy

I explored all six bedrooms before deciding on two at the end of the upstairs hallway, a huge one with an enormous bed and plasma tv for my dad and a smaller one with a window seat for me. I'd always wanted a window seat, but those don't come in low-rent apartments like I'd always lived in with my aunt and uncle.

I carried Harold's bags upstairs—my bags now, but they still seemed like they belonged to Mr. H. I couldn't quite get used to the fact that they were really mine. As I passed the living room, I saw that my dad had fallen asleep, so I also carried his one bag upstairs, a long, thin suit bag like businessmen carry on airplanes. It was light, and I wondered how it could possibly contain everything he had.

I started to unpack in my new room, but curiosity wouldn't let go of me. The same feeling that made listening to other people's conversations almost irresistible to me made me want nothing more than to tiptoe into my father's room and find out exactly what was in his black bag.

I walked partway down the stairs until I could barely see into the living room. My dad was lying down, and his chest was rising and falling in slow rhythm. Still asleep. Determined, I went to the huge room and took his bag down from where I had placed it in the walk-in closet.

I carried it over to the bed as quietly as I could and set it down carefully so that I could see what was inside without leaving evidence that I'd opened it. I was grateful it wasn't locked. All I had to do was reach out and open the front zipper.

"You have problems with privacy."

I nearly screamed when I heard the calm, measured voice coming from the doorway behind me. I turned around in an instant, and I could feel my face blushing deep red.

"Here," he said, "I'll show you." I stood motionless while my dad walked over and opened the bag and took everything out of it one-by-one. Two suits, three shirts, a pair of black leather shoes, a belt, and a smaller bag with a comb, toothbrush and toothpaste, and a bottle of cologne. That was it.

Dad looked me in the eye. "Sometimes curiosity kills the cat. Other times it just means finding a bunch of boring adult things that are none of your business." His half-smirk wasn't very severe, and I started to hope that he wasn't going to kill me.

I watched while he placed the clothes in the closet and the other items on the dresser, then turned to leave the room. "Come on," he said. "It's past lunch time, and Harold gave us his delivery card." When I didn't move for a minute, he turned around and took in my expression. "I guess I'll get used to you," he said. "You're just like Harold." I didn't say I was sorry because his eyes told me I was already forgiven.

I followed him downstairs, and he handed me a catalogue with a bunch of restaurant menus in it. "Can I get a pizza?" I asked.

"Again?" he said.

"It's ok," I said quickly, "I can think of something else."

"Doesn't matter to me," he said. "I'm having Chinese." I wrinkled my nose, and he laughed.

The food arrived quickly, a white pizza for me and an order of General Tso's Chicken for my dad. We ate together at the oversized dining table, pulling two chairs close together so that we wouldn't be the whole length of the table away from one another.

"How's the pizza?" he asked after a few bites of broccoli covered in sauce that looked disgusting to me.

"Great," I said. "Want some?"

"No thanks."

I thought we were going to eat a near-silent meal, but he put his fork down after a while and drilled me with his eyes. "Katherine, we need to get something straight."

"Ok," I said, setting down a half-eaten crust.

"My stuff is mine, and your stuff is yours. That includes conversations. I have a dangerous job. There are things you shouldn't see and hear. I need you to respect those things and not try to hear and see what isn't meant for you. Understand?"

"Yeah," I said, staring at my fingers.

"There's something Joss—Detective Carter—said earlier. She said you'd want to get to know me better and I shouldn't try to stop you." He grinned to himself. "She said you deserve to know your father." He looked away, out the dining room window, his face serious again. "I think she's probably right. If you stop snooping, I promise to be available to you. Is that a fair deal?"

I nodded, and he gave me one of his rarest smiles, an un-cynical one that lit up his eyes.


	9. The Library

The Library

"We have an appointment this afternoon," Dad said as he used his chopsticks to rake up his last piece of chicken.

"Yeah?" I looked at him quizzically, and my chewing slowed.

"We're going to the Library."

"Which one?" I asked. I knew where every library in New York City was located. I had them memorized.

"Not one you've been to," he said, and I almost thought he was teasing me a little bit.

"I've been to all of them," I said archly. That was one thing I could be confident about, at least.

"Not this one," Dad reiterated, as a half-smirk tried to take over his mouth. "Just wait until we get there." I shook my head, but I wasn't really annoyed. Any kind of library was a good library.

After lunch, I went upstairs and put on a pair of white and purple sneakers. I had lived in New York City long enough to know that most trips out meant a lot of walking. I came back down and found my father back in the living room, looking at his smartphone.

"That was fast," he said, "we don't need to leave for an hour."

I slumped onto the sofa and tried to concentrate on reading my book. It had been ages since I'd been to a proper library. I was almost jittery with excitement, and the wait was excruciating.

After a minute or two, I felt my dad's dark eyes on me. "I didn't realize you'd be so excited. We can leave early. It won't kill Harold." I practically jumped off the couch when he started to get up, and he laughed, but it wasn't a laugh with any meanness in it. He took my hand, and I realized I had started to get used to it.

Dad hailed a cab again, and I couldn't remember ever riding in cars so much in so few days. Aunt Judy barely had enough money for the Subway, let alone expensive taxis. I didn't mind the Subway, but I liked being with just my dad even more, with the window slightly open and my brown hair blowing gently in the chilly breeze.

The driver let us off on an old-fashioned block with a lot of historical-looking buildings. I didn't remember ever hearing of a library being there; it looked more like a bunch of really old banks and offices.

Dad took me in between two multi-story structures to the back entrance of a heavy stone building that looked like it would house nothing more exciting than a bank vault. He used a special sensor on his keys to open the door, and we went inside to a row of elevators. No one was in sight, and the whole place was cavernously dark. It would have creeped me out if my dad hadn't been with me. I started to be grateful for the feeling of his warm, solid hand in mine.

The elevator took us to the top floor, and Dad opened another door into a huge room. I stepped inside and saw what I had always imagined heaven to be. Floor to ceiling, wall to wall, rack after rack of books. Like a library, yes, but with four or five times the number of books and none of the silly things like reading rugs or children's toys to take space away from the printed page.

"What is this?" I asked, totally in awe.

"This is Harold's book collection," said my dad's voice from behind me.

I turned around to see if he was messing with me, but he looked serious. "They're all Harold's?" I couldn't believe it.

"Rare books are his hobby," said dad. "Just be careful with them. He's very particular."

"Don't scare her to death, Mr. Reese," said Harold, suddenly materializing nearby. I had no idea how he'd gotten inside, since he certainly hadn't come in the way we had. "She's a true book lover. Just let her enjoy them."

"It's amazing!" I said, giving the small man a wide stare from my blue eyes.

"I'm glad someone's here who actually appreciates it," he said drily, giving my dad a meaningful glance. "Feel free to look at anything that interests you, but I've made a shelf of things I thought you might enjoy." I followed him to the last library stack before a desk full of computer equipment. "I pulled all these out for you last night," he said, indicating the full rack, which had at least two hundred books on it.

I wanted to throw my arms around Mr. H as tightly as I could, but instead I walked over calmly and kissed his cheek. He blushed crimson, and my dad laughed quietly.


	10. Aiming to Please

Aiming to Please

I sat down on the floor in the corner of Mr. H's library while the two men talked at Harold's desk. For once, I didn't care what they were saying because I was surrounded by so many books that I was practically in a trance. Harold had good taste. The books he'd selected for me from his collection were all old, but they were far from uninteresting. There were fairy tales, adventure stories about children at the turn of the century, and historical novels, even a few volumes of early science fiction. I remembered from a school project that science fiction had only become really popular in the past hundred years, and I loved the illustrations of weirdly old-fashioned contraptions and aliens I found.

I picked up a large, gorgeous book of fairy tales with pages yellowed by age and held it to my nose, smelling the intoxicating scent of old paper. I thought I might like to stay in the library forever, away from everything, including my feelings.

"Katherine, I need to you stay with Finch for a while." My dad's soft voice pulled me out of my reverie.

"Ok," I answered, glad to be able to stay in paradise a little longer. I turned back to my book, but he stood and watched me for a little bit, like he was waiting, before he finally turned around and walked away. I stared at his back and wondered what he'd been waiting for.

After a few minutes, Mr. H came and stood over me, peering down like a curious owl. "Are you comfortable?" he asked. I nodded. "If you need something, feel free to ask." He returned to his desk, and I was glad that he was the kind of adult who understood alone time.

I read for several minutes, switching between a few books before settling on _Daddy-Long-Legs_ by Jean Webster, a story about an orphan who liked to write. I had always liked stories about orphans because they made me feel less alone in my situation. I started to read in the usual way, but then it hit me: I wasn't an orphan any more. I had a father, a father who had done something I didn't understand.

I got up and walked to Harold's desk, stopping in front of him and waiting silently until he noticed me. After a long time, he finally looked up. "Goodness, you're very quiet," he said. "I had no idea you were there. Do you need something?"

I breathed deeply to give myself courage. "When my dad was about to leave, he stopped for a minute and looked at me. Do you know why?" I felt foolish, but Mr. H was the only person I knew who also knew my dad, and he was my only option. I didn't like the nagging uncertainty in my mind and the memory of my dad's face as he'd turned away. There had been something in his eyes that made me feel like I'd done something wrong without meaning to, and I hated that feeling.

"Your father is a complicated man," said Harold. "He buries his feelings deep, but they're there." I listened carefully, glad to learn anything I could about my dad, but somewhat confused about the way Harold's statements connected to my question.

"I can see I'm being overly obscure," he continued after a pause. "I haven't developed the power of mindreading, more's the pity, but I would guess your father was hoping for some sort of goodbye."

"Oh," I said. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," he answered, and I went back to my corner. I felt guilty. My dad had tried so hard to be nice to me, and I couldn't even manage to do something as easy as saying goodbye.

I went back to reading after a while, but I couldn't feel excited any more. I always tried hard to be the kind of person people really _wanted_, the way Aunt Judy and Uncle Robert had never wanted me, and I hated it when I failed. Now that I had someone to please who really mattered, failure hurt even more than usual. It didn't matter to me that I had only missed one goodbye or that my dad was a grown man and I was a little girl. I had missed an opportunity to do something he wanted, and I had trouble letting that go.

I heard Harold talking on the phone after a while, but he seemed to be repeating addresses in the city and people's names, and I didn't understand what he was talking about. Finally, I managed to get back into the story of Judy Abbott and the unknown guardian she called Daddy-Long-Legs, and afternoon turned to dusk while I read about her life at women's college.

My dad didn't get back until the sun had nearly disappeared and the library was illuminated by low lamps. He came to my corner first, and I stood up, determined to make up for before. "Hi, Dad!" My voice was a little bit too unnaturally upbeat.

"Are you ok?" he asked, looking confused.

"I'm fine," I said, but he hugged me anyway, a half-hug that pulled me against his side. He didn't seem upset or disappointed in me, and I was relieved enough to shut my eyes and enjoy his closeness.

He let me go and walked over to Harold's desk. "I have Elias's location," he said abruptly. "He's in Chinatown now, but he'll be moved to this address in the morning." He handed Mr. H a scrap of paper.

Harold raised his eyebrows. "Excellent work, Mr. Reese."


	11. Explosive

Explosive

"I'll call Carter and arrange to move in on Elias in the morning," said Harold.

"Fine," said Dad quickly. "I'll bring Katherine here, and she can sit tight while you coordinate."

"That's fine, Mr. Reese." As much as they tried to appear calm, I could see that both Mr. H and my dad were excited and agitated. My father's voice was just slightly louder than usual, and Harold's hands were fidgeting nervously with things on his desk.

"I'll take Katherine home now," said Dad. "We haven't eaten. Do you want anything, Finch?"

"No, it's all right," said Harold absently, "I have a great deal to prepare."

I listened and heard my dad say the word "home" and instantly perked up, wondering if he meant my real home, the one I had shared with Aunt Judy and Uncle Robert. As much as I loved Harold's things, I wanted to go back and retrieve some of my own possessions—my sketchbooks and journal and my favorite purple sweater in particular.

I walked over to Harold's desk and worked up the courage to ask. "Dad?" His eyes were on me instantly, alert and attentive. "Do you mean my house—I mean, where my stuff is? Could we go there?"

My father and Harold stared at me, and neither one of them said anything. I wondered if I had said something wrong. Maybe I wasn't supposed to ask things like that. I started to think of how to apologize, how to fix it and make them like me again.

"That's not possible, sweetheart." My dad's voice was very soft and very calm. He took my right hand in both of his and held it gently. "When your aunt and uncle passed away, the house was damaged, too."

"How bad?" My voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.

"It's all gone," he said simply, his eyes bleak as they looked into mine.

I jerked my hand away, my instinct to flee. There was nowhere to go that wasn't part of the library, no room where I could hide behind a closed door. Instead, I folded my arms around myself and felt hot, silent tears fill my eyes and spill over my cheeks. I felt sick as the realization of everything I had lost washed over me, and I doubled over, sobbing noiselessly. Now I didn't just feel like I'd lost two people; I felt like I'd lost my entire life.

In an instant, my dad knelt on the floor in front of me and pulled me into his arms so that I could cry into his shoulder. "I'm so sorry," he whispered. "I've got you." I thought I would never stop crying. I felt so full of tears that it seemed impossible that they would ever dry up. After a long time, though, my sobs were followed by hard breathing and finally a flat, empty calm. I didn't want to let go of my dad, to ever pull away and have to face the ugly, destructive world. I wished I could stay in his warm arms forever.

I think my father would have held me all night if I'd let him, but I finally straightened up and looked over at Harold, who wasn't doing anything except watching us, a pained expression on his face. I tried to smile at him, but my mouth wouldn't cooperate.

Dad stood up and took my hand. "Let's go." I nodded wearily, and we left, not speaking as we rode the elevator down to the empty first floor and hailed a cab on the street. As we sat down in the backseat, I heard my stomach growl loudly. I hadn't noticed before that I was hungry, but it seemed like all of my crying had emptied me not only of liquid but also of nourishment. I was starving.

"Does anything sound good to eat?" my dad asked, still holding my hand as we rode in the cab. "Mexican?" I asked. It was my favorite, besides pizza.

"Sure," said Dad, "anything you want." He leaned forward and gave the driver a different address. When he sat back in his seat, I scooted into the middle and leaned against him, wanting to crawl back inside the warmth that had encircled me while I cried. I wasn't used to love like that, the kind that gives and gives and doesn't ask anything in return. Once again, he put his strong arm around me. "Katherine," he said, "it's ok to be upset or angry about what happened. You can tell me."

"Ok," I said, grateful. For the moment, I was flat and empty and spent inside, but I was glad not to be alone.


	12. Love

Love

The taxi driver took us to a fancy Mexican restaurant that I'd never been to before, with a fountain and bright lights outside. "Harold's paying. We should enjoy ourselves," Dad muttered, but he smiled at the same time.

A beautiful Hispanic hostess seated us at a booth by the window, and I looked out at all the rich people and their fancy cars. After a few moments, I glanced over and realized that the hostess was spending a really long time at our table. My dad. I was old enough to understand why she was leaning close and smiling a lot. He nodded politely, but he wasn't interested.

We were finally rescued by a beautiful blond woman in a low-cut red dress. I opened my eyes wide when I saw the height of her stiletto heels. The only people I'd ever seen walk in those were on tv. The hostess finally slunk away as the newcomer approached our table.

"Evening, John," she said. Her voice was low and husky.

"Zoe," said Dad, nodding, but I could tell by his face that he liked her a lot more than the hostess.

"Who's this?" she asked, tilting her head toward me.

"Someone I'm protecting," was all my dad offered.

"Looks like a date to me," she said, with a wink in my direction. "You have to watch out for the handsome ones."

"You should take your own advice," said Dad, and I saw a white-haired man in a suit come up behind her.

"Oh, don't worry," she said, "just business." She glided away.

"Is she nice?" I asked. I was kind of confused. I knew what my dad and Zoe had said to each other, but something else seemed to be going on at the same time, and I didn't know what.

"She's dangerous," said my father. "Any information she has, she'll probably use. I'm glad we don't look more alike. I don't think she figured it out."

"I wish I looked like her," I said absently as I eyed the menu.

"I don't" was the last thing my dad said before the waiter came to take our order.

I ordered a burrito, one of the only things on the menu I actually recognized, and my dad got something called a chimichanga that I'd never heard of before. The menu said it had avocados. The very thought made me want to gag.

"Katherine," my dad broke the silence that followed the waiter's departure.

"Yeah?"

"You heard what Harold said about going after Elias, right?"

"Uh huh."

"It's probably going to be dangerous." He hesitated for a minute, and I wondered if he genuinely thought I hadn't figured that out already. "I want you to know—if anything happens to me—" He went silent as the waiter refilled our drinks. I clasped my hands tightly in my lap and waited. Finally, he continued slowly, as if it was hard for him to talk. "If something happens, Harold will make sure you get all my stuff and have everything you need. And—"

I didn't breathe for a second. Sure, it was nice of him to tell me that someone would take care of me, but something in me was desperate for more.

"I want you to know I love you." He looked at me full-on with his intense, wonderful eyes, and in that moment, I thought I could live through anything. I felt myself smile, and I wasn't even trying.

After that, neither of us said anything through most of the meal, until Dad finally asked me why I liked books so much. I didn't stop talking until we were in the cab on the way back to our house. He didn't seem to mind.


	13. Nighttime

Nighttime

Back at the house, Dad went to the living room and turned on the tv, a giant screen that seemed to get about a thousand channels. He found a basketball game and leaned back into the couch, motioning me to join him. I was too wide awake to sleep, so I sat beside him, and he put his arm around me. I didn't care about the tall, sweaty men fighting over the orange ball, but he seemed to be really into it, focused and excited. I hadn't seen him that happy about anything else.

"You like basketball a lot?" I said tentatively.

"Uh huh," he said, not taking his eyes off the screen. "I used to play."

"Cool," I said, "I'm really good at layups in gym class."

"You get that from me," said Dad. "Your mom wasn't athletic."

"Me either," I added quickly. "The basket thing is kind of weird. I'm terrible at sports." I couldn't keep the hint of something rough-edged out of my voice, and my tore his eyes away from the tv and looked at me.

"That upsets you?" he said in his quiet way.

"Whatever," I answered. "It doesn't matter." Dad didn't push it, but I felt his arm around me tighten a tiny bit.

I thought I would never get sleepy, but I finally did during the second half, and I dozed off on my father's shoulder. When he finally shook me awake, the game was over, and I knew I had been asleep a long time. "Big day tomorrow, sweetheart; go get ready for bed."

I obeyed him sleepily, going to the bathroom to brush my teeth and changing into green pajamas from Harold. Once I was finished, I climbed into the giant four-poster bed in my room and burrowed into the thick blankets, sinking into the soft mattress. I fought to stay awake, listening for my dad's footfall, hoping he would come to tuck me in.

Sure enough, when my eyes were almost shut, a dark figure filled the doorway of my room, my dad in the gray t-shirt and pajama pants he wore to sleep. Just as he had in the hotel, he sat on the edge of my bed. "Comfy?" he asked with a smile that filled his eyes.

"Yeah," I said.

"Give me your flashlight," said Dad, holding out his hand. I felt myself blush in the near-darkness as I handed over the sturdy silver flashlight I had found in my nightstand drawer. "And your book," he continued. I handed him _Aesop's Fables_. I had hidden both flashlight and storybook under the covers so that I could read in the night if I felt like it. I had no idea how he knew.

"You need to sleep," was all Dad said, without room for argument or discussion. He leaned over and kissed my forehead. I couldn't decide if I was irritated or not, so I just closed my eyes and didn't respond. After a moment, I heard a low laugh. "Silent treatment, huh?" A warm hand smoothed the hair from my forehead, and I couldn't help smiling a little bit, even though I was trying not to. "Come get me if you have a nightmare," said Dad as he left the room. I fell asleep immediately, and I didn't wake up until morning. I didn't really need the book after all.


	14. Misinformed

Misinformed

I woke up early. No way I could sleep late knowing Dad was going after Elias. I dressed in a blue skirt and a black shirt. I didn't feel like wearing anything exciting on the day my dad might get hurt.

We ate leftover pizza for breakfast. I felt agitated, but my father seemed calmer than usual. I guess that's how stress affected him. It freaked me out a little bit, the way his breathing was even and his voice never varied in tone. I kind of wished he would show that he was nervous somehow; his lack of visible fear made my nerves go even further toward the edge than they already were.

The sun was starting to come up as we entered the library. Mr. H was dressed in his usual three-piece suit and nodded as we came in, but he showed his anxiety on his face the way Dad didn't. "Good morning," he said, taking a sip of his green tea.

"Morning," said Dad.

"I'll be helping you any way I can," Harold continued.

"I know," said my dad. "Just make sure you take care of Katherine."

"Of course," said the shorter man with a tight-lipped smile.

Harold went back to his desk, but Dad put a hand on my shoulder. "Don't worry," he said. "Everything's going to be ok." I watched as he turned and left the library, wishing with everything in me that I could make him come back. The one person in the world who belonged to me—or, at least, had started to belong to me—was going away, where there were guns and bad people and things I didn't understand. I just wanted him to stay.

After a while, I wondered back to Harold's desk and watched him boot up his computer and check various buttons and wires. "I really do like you," he said after a long while, his voice strange because he was bent nearly double over a black box. "You're quiet at the right times. It's a rare gift."

"Thanks," I said, not quite sure what he meant or how to answer.

"I probably shouldn't let you watch with me, but I can tell you're dying of nervousness as much as I am. I won't torture you." He limped over to a door in the back wall and opened it, revealing a small closet from which he pulled a folding chair. He put it next to his, and I sat down.

"Mr. H?"

"Yes?"

"Why don't the police put Elias in jail?"

"That's a complicated thing," he answered. "He was in jail before, but he got out because a lot of people who should know better owe him money and favors."

"Oh," I said.

"Believe me," Harold continued, "it's as bewilderingly despicable to me as it is to you."

I smiled at him. Something in his indignant tone made me feel better than I had all day. No way anyone could get away with something wrong when Harold was on the right side.

Just then, Harold's phone rang. "Hello, Detective," he said coolly. "I hope you're on the way to meet with our mutual friend." I couldn't hear the answer, but I saw Harold's expression change to dark annoyance. "Are you sure? Wait for Mr. Reese and do a sweep of the house. Let me know if you find anything." He hung up and sat back in his chair. "Looks like we've been made fools of, Katherine. That was Detective Carter. There's no sign of Elias or anyone in his operation at the address the informant gave your father. They're onto him." He took a few deep breaths and seemed to regain his equilibrium.

"Mr. Reese?" Harold's next call was a logical one. "False alarm. Bad information. I've told Carter to help you look for any clues at the house. I'm going to move you and Katherine into an apartment near Central Park tonight. It's too dangerous to stay in one place any longer. Stop at the safe house and pack your things before you come back here. Looks like we'll be rendezvousing a lot sooner than anticipated."

He hung up again before looking over at me. "We can relax for now. Your father will have to keep looking."

"Ok," I said.

"That's worth at least a small smile," he said, raising his eyebrow at my glum expression. "Plus, you'll be out of school for a while longer. Doesn't that usually make children happy?"

"I like school," I said.

"Right," said Harold. "In some ways, you really aren't that much like your dad." He laughed drily, and my mouth curved into a smile, even though I didn't mean to.


	15. Anger

Harold and I had finished an entire bag of Doritos and watched five episodes of "Hogan's Heroes" on his computer before my dad finally got back. Mr. H, fast becoming one of my favorite people in the world, had produced the bag of chips from somewhere in his desk and a Blu-Ray version of the show, a really old one I hadn't ever seen. He didn't explain what it was about. Instead, he let me gradually get into the story of the Nazi prison camp and the clever prisoners who constantly outwitted their guards.

It was the perfect way to get my mind off things, and by the time I heard the door open to admit Dad into the library, I was laughing and feeling much better. Harold laughed, too, not as much as I did, but every now and then he let out a quiet, ironic chuckle.

"You two seem happy." I looked up from Harold's computer monitor and into my dad's smiling face.

"We're both glad you're not dead, Mr. Reese," said Harold tersely. I thought he sounded slightly irritated, and I didn't know why. Dad's face changed, and I caught something between them that felt unsettling. My stomach tensed.

"Katherine, take a book and go to the other side of the room," said Dad evenly.

I did what he said, but I was mad. I sat in the far corner of the library with my back against the wall, holding my book against my chest and breathing hard.

I hate getting really angry. It's something that takes me over and makes me feel like I'm all empty and then filled back up with something I can't control. When I was little, my teacher said I had anger problems and sent me to the school counselor. I was scared to death they would tell my aunt and uncle, so I learned quickly—the way to make people think I was ok was to squeeze the feelings down as hard at I could. After a while, I wouldn't feel them any more—or anything else. Sometimes, like then, they all threatened to claw their way out, and I had to fight hard to keep them hidden.

Did he think I was a baby? Did he think I was too dumb to see that they were upset? I was almost a teenager, for goodness' sake. They didn't have to send me away like I was three years old. I clenched my teeth and thought of all the bad words I knew, which made me feel a little bit better.

I was blank by the time my dad came to get me. My head felt white, I guess you could say, like there wasn't anything in it. "Come on, Katherine," Dad said. "Harold says he hasn't fed you anything except chips." I got up without saying anything and followed him outside. Mr. H didn't come over, and I couldn't see him because of all the stacks in the way. I felt tired, the way I always did after I'd been angry.

"We're moving," said my father once we were inside a taxi.

"Ok," I said, not looking at him.

"It'll be safer for us," he continued. I didn't reply. "It's a place I used to live."

I stared at the unscuffed toes of the Mary Janes Harold had bought for me. Stupid shoes. Stupid taxi. Stupid dad. I didn't look at him the whole way to the restaurant.


	16. Dance Dance Revolution

We rode for a long time, with me staring ahead silently and not saying anything. Dad usually didn't mind not talking, but now and then I could feel his eyes on me. I forced myself not to look at him. Finally, the taxi driver pulled off into the parking lot of a strip mall with only one restaurant. I almost snorted. We were at Chuck E. Cheese.

I had been to Chuck E. Cheese one time in my life and loved it—when I was eight years old. I couldn't believe my dad or Harold or whoever had come up with the idea thought it was a place to bring a kid my age. It was ridiculous.

"I used to love coming here when I was a kid," said dad softly, the first conversation we'd had since the library. Oh. That was why. I finally looked at him, and he was half smiling.

I wanted to hold onto my anger from earlier, but there was something about how Dad looked, like he was remembering happy times, that made me not want to mess up the moment. He put out his hand, and I took it without rolling my eyes.

The inside looked like every other Chuck E. Cheese in the world, with creepy animatronics, loud families with lots of kids, and games that spit out tickets if you won or lost. Dad gave some money to the cashier and bought us more tokens than I had ever seen in my life. "Stay close," he said. "This is a good place to hide in plain sight, but I don't want to take any chances."

"Ok," I said. It's not like I had some huge list of things I was dying to do at Chuck E. Cheese. Dad made straight for Skee Ball, and I followed. We took possession of adjacent lanes, and pretty soon, we were competing. Dad won the first round hands down because I'd never played before, but I started to look better in Round 2. By Round 3, it was pretty obvious that I was the more naturally talented player, and I won by 20 points. Dad gave me a high five. That was sort of weird.

After Skee Ball, we played a military-based video game that I thought was boring, but Dad seemed to take it as seriously as a real battle. My mind wandered while he was blowing up enemy tanks, and I looked over and saw something across the room. "I know what to play next," I said. My father raised an eyebrow, no doubt surprised that I was actually talking.

"Lead the way," he said finally, pocketing the huge rolls of tickets the video game spit at him. I guess the thing wasn't used to people beating its last level. We navigated our way through hoards of shrieking kids until we got to the side of the room. "No way. I don't dance," I heard, as Dad saw where I was taking him.

"Come on," I said, "I played your army game."

"National Guard," he corrected automatically.

"Please?" I said with a pleading look, trying to imitate a girl from my school named Megan, who had always been able to get anything she wanted out of the teachers.

"One round," Dad groused, taking his place next to me.

Once the music started, I realized my father was the biggest bluffer in the world. Trust me, you've never seen anyone better at Dance Dance Revolution. I gave up after a few minutes and just watched him. You would have thought he was Fred Astaire.

The music finally stopped, and Dad stepped off the game platform with a self-satisfied smirk. "Ready for pizza?" he asked. I couldn't help grinning.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Sorry for the long time between updates. Hope you liked it!**


	17. Conflicted

"Nice to see you smiling," said Dad as we finished our pizza. He leaned across the booth. "You need to understand something, sweetheart. Harold and I are partners, but we're friends, too. Sometimes partners get upset with each other, but that's nothing for you to worry about. You're too young to understand everything about what we do. It wouldn't be fair to you to be in the middle of all of that. I didn't ever expect to be raising a kid as a part of this life, but I'm doing the best I can, and part of that is keeping you out of things that could hurt you."

Goofing around at Chuck E. Cheese had temporarily soothed my anger, but it flared up again when my dad started talking. Who was he to decide what I should or shouldn't know? He hadn't even known I was his daughter for more than a few days. How could he possibly know what I could handle?

I felt conflicted, though I would have had no idea how to describe it at the time. Part of me wanted to trust John wholeheartedly as my dad, to accept whatever he said and sink into whatever love he provided. At certain times, it just felt so _right_. The other part of me was scared, and that fear made me want to be independent and never trust him at all.

He sat back, watching me, but he didn't say anything. After he paid the bill, we went outside to catch another taxi. He was still silent, and I wondered if he would try to take my hand. He did, of course. He always took my hand.

Instead of going back to the house where we'd been staying, we went to a fancy apartment building. I wondered if we were going to have to buy all new things again, but when we got up to Apartment D on the fifth floor, all of our things were inside. I didn't like the idea of strangers packing all of my stuff, but at least I'd gotten to keep it. I was starting to get attached to all of Harold's beautiful presents.

The apartment was nice—comfortable. It only had one bedroom, so Dad said he would sleep on the couch. I was still seething, so I went into the room and shut the door, plopping onto the big bed. That had always been my escape, going off by myself and shutting everyone else out.

Dad gave me a few minutes to calm down before I heard his gentle but insistent knock on the door, as I had known I would. It was an announcement rather than a request, and the door opened immediately afterward. Dad came inside, wearing a t-shirt and black sweatpants. He looked different that way, younger maybe, and more like a regular guy than a superhero. He sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled his feet up under him. It was plenty big enough for both of us.

"Anger," he said, as if he was addressing no one in particular, "is very unhealthy if you keep it inside." He turned to face me. "You can tell me what you're thinking. I can handle it."

I don't know why, but I said a word I'd only ever heard my uncle say when he was drunk, the kind that would get you an automatic detention if you said it at my school. My father's expression didn't change. He just looked at me with the same steady gaze, but I was horrified at myself. After a long time of neither one of us talking, he finally left the room, looking unhappy.

I didn't blame him. I felt like a jumbled up mess of anger and fear and guilt, and I didn't know which thing I felt the most. I was still trying to figure it out when I fell asleep and had a horrible dream. Any time I went to bed upset, I always had nightmares, and this time I dreamed that Harold was dead and that I was stuck in a black maze, screaming for my dad, who never answered.

I woke up suddenly, and fear turned into instant comfort. In my disoriented state, I felt like I was wrapped in a big, warm blanket, a blanket that was somehow alive. I opened my eyes, and that blanket was my dad, who was holding me tightly. "It's ok," he said over and over. "I've got you."

"How did you know?" I asked, leaning into his shoulder.

"You were screaming bloody murder," he answered.

"Oh," I said, feeling more and more ashamed as I became more alert. It had been ages since I'd had a proper screaming nightmare. That was something only little kids had, I thought. I was way too old. "I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to."

"It's not your fault, Katherine," said Dad, but he sounded kind of mad, and it scared me, so I pulled away from him.

"It's ok," he said, "I'm not upset with you. I'm just upset with the lowlifes who made you feel bad about having nightmares."

"Oh," I said again, letting him pull me in close and shutting my eyes.

"Why were you yelling for me?" he asked.

"I couldn't find you in my dream," I admitted.

"Well," he said, "that's never going to happen in real life. Not even if you're so mad you try to get rid of me."

I didn't say anything back, but his words were like a huge wave of comfort, and I went back to sleep with peace instead of anger.


	18. Consequences

Consequences

The next morning, I woke up with apprehension in the pit of my stomach. My father had soothed me in the night, but the fact remained that the last thing I'd said to him during the day was the worst curse word I knew. I took as long as I possibly could getting ready, then finally came out wearing the most drab things I could find out of Harold's gifts, a gray sweater and a pair of black trousers.

"You look professional," Dad said when he saw me. "Come and eat some cereal. I have recon to do, so eat up and get ready to go to the library. I'm sorry if it's monotonous for you, going there so much. I promise that as soon as the situation is more secure, we'll figure out a way for you to catch up on your schoolwork."

Not a word about the day before. I watched his face to see if he was saving it so he could spring the discussion on me unawares. That's what Aunt Judy would have done, but he just ate a bowl of Lucky Charms and read the newspaper like nothing was going on.

Finally, he put his paper down and looked over at me. I wasn't eating, just pushing Cinnamon Toast Crunch around in my bowl with my spoon. "Are you ok?" he asked. "Nightmare still bothering you?" I shook my head no.

"What is it, then?" he asked. "Something's obviously wrong." When I still didn't answer, he inclined his head. "Come here." I went and stood in front of him, my eyes on the patent leather toes of my black shoes. "Look," he said, "Harold has his secrets, but he's a grown man. I need you to be honest with me."

"I'm—sorry, Dad," I said, angry at myself for the fact that my lip was trembling.

"Sorry for what?" He looked genuinely bewildered.

"For what I said to you yesterday."

"Ooooh," he said slowly, as understanding dawned on him. "Don't worry about it. I've had much worse." His voice was light, dismissive, even. When I didn't cheer up, he put a hand under my chin and lifted my face to look at him. "I already forgave you. What's the matter?"

"I thought you'd be upset," I said. "I've never said that to anybody."

His face grew serious, and he looked at me for a while. "That was a big deal for you, huh?"

"Yeah," I said.

"How about this?" he said. "No reading today, and you can think about how to control what you say when you're angry."

I felt really good and really terrible at the same time. Spending an entire day without books was a depressing punishment, but there was something right about it, too. Dad hugged me close. "Now, eat something, so we can go." He spoke lightly, but his arms held me tightly.

* * *

><p>"Mr. Reese, you brought her to a library and told her she's not allowed to read?" I heard Harold's voice, even though I was supposed to be too far away to hear what my dad and Mr. H were saying. "That's cruel and unusual."<p>

"I couldn't help it, Finch," my dad answered, a little louder than usual because he was being defensive. "I wasn't going to punish her at all, but she wouldn't let me off! Reading was the only thing I could think of. I don't even know what she likes other than that. She's a very private child."

"Privacy," said Harold, "is not a bad thing."

"Neither is discipline," said Dad. "It won't kill her." I heard Harold huff.

* * *

><p>The day wasn't as bad as I'd feared it might be because Harold kept me entertained most of the time. He made his computer into a split screen so that he could help my father with reconnaissance on one side and show Hogan's Heroes and I Dream of Jeannie on the other. Still, I felt a little bit like an addict going cold turkey.<p>

Dad was out all day on trying to track down information about Elias, but he finally came back to the library around dinner time and found me sitting in the corner staring at the white plaster ceiling and trying to recount, in my head, the title of every book I'd ever read.

"Move over," he said unceremoniously, lifting my feet and sitting down next to me. He looked tired.

"How was your day?" I asked, knowing he always liked it.

"Better than yours, from the looks of it," he said, grinning. "Oh, and I brought you something." He took a small plastic bag out of his coat pocket and handed it to me. I took out its contents and almost gasped—a gorgeously illustrated version of Grimm's Fairy Tales.

"What about—?" I looked at him, confused.

"You can thank Harold," he said. "He convinced me that a whole day without books was more severe than I realized. He laughed. "Just remember this next time I do something to annoy _you_," he said.

"Got it," I answered, hugging the book like a long-lost friend.

Dad got up then and went over to tell Harold what he'd found out. I didn't listen this time, too excited about being able to read again. In moments, I was lost in the strange and wonderful world of fairy tales.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: In case this doesn't seem plausible, at Katherine's age, my sister and I were punished this way occasionally, and we thought it was the most horrific thing in the world. **

**My dear friend, fanfic author Haiza Tyri adds: **_You need to have an author's note about how this is the most horrible punishment and I think you're sadistic ;-]_

**Believe me, for the right kid, this is the worst thing in the world ;D**


	19. Cooking

I read all through our taxi ride, and I didn't stop until we pulled up at the apartment building where we now lived, the one my dad said he'd stayed in before. I liked the idea of being somewhere that had a connection to his past, at least a little bit. We got out, and I held my book in one hand, instinctively leaving my left hand free so Dad could hold it. I didn't know if he knew I thought it was a little bit silly for my dad to hold my hand at my age, but I knew he wouldn't care. There weren't that many things my father insisted on, but holding my hand was one of them, and that was the end of it.

My dad was like that, I was starting to see. In a lot of ways, he was really easygoing, but when it came to the few things he cared about, he was firm. Mr. H said it was the military in him, but I didn't think so. The military in movies always seemed like it was about yelling and ordering people to do things they didn't want to do. My father wasn't that way. His insistence was quiet and gentle, just like the extended hand that he never failed to hold out for me.

"I'm hungry," said Dad as we rode the elevator to our floor. "We need dinner."

"Pizza?" I asked hopefully. Since meeting my dad and Harold, I'd had more pizza in a week than I'd had in about a year.

"Nope," said Dad. "You need a real meal once in a while. Maybe I'll cook." I stared at him, surprised. "You never should have made me punish you," he teased. "I'm getting too used to being your dad and ordering you around." He attacked me then, grabbing me from behind and wrapping me up in a tight squeeze.

I liked it. I had seen other people's parents do things like that to them, but no one had ever done anything like it to me. He let go, and we walked down the hall to our apartment.

"Isn't there anything else you like to eat besides pizza?" he asked. "Like, a homemade meal?"

"Aunt Judy couldn't cook," I said. "I usually ate ramen noodles or macaroni and cheese."

"Oh," he said, "then we're going to pull out all the stops."

As soon as we got into the apartment, Dad took his phone out and started ordering things. He didn't have them delivered to our address. He got them sent a few doors down so that no one would know where we lived, just in case. He wouldn't tell me what he was ordering. He said it was a surprise. I wasn't big on surprises, but I was starting to trust him enough to believe that it would be a nice one.

We went back out to get the food, but my father wouldn't let me see what any of it was. The grocery delivery guy looked at him strangely when he asked him to tie all the tops of the bags shut, but Dad just smirked and paid him his money and a nice tip.

When we got back to the apartment, Dad turned on the stove and started opening things. "I'll let you help some time," he said, "but this time is my specialty."

I went to the living room and read again, losing myself in the story of the Goose Girl, my favorite fairy tale in all the world. It was a little bit morbid, I guess, since the story is about the talking head of a dead horse and things like that, but it's also about somebody going through a lot of terrible things and never forgetting that she's really a princess. I didn't feel like a princess, but I'd always wanted to.

Pretty soon, I started smelling things coming from the kitchen, spicy, pungent smells that tickled my nose and made my mouth water. I sneaked up to the kitchen door, only to hear my dad's voice, very slightly raised: "Don't you dare come in here, Katherine Reese." I guess he had eyes in the back of his head.

"What about Harold?" I yelled back. "What does he eat?"

Dad came over and filled the doorway with his large frame, his hands covered in a reddish spice. "Don't worry about Harold. He's not a very good cook, but he knows all the best places. One of these days, when things have calmed down a little bit, we'll have him over for dinner."

"Ok," I said. Within five minutes, I heard the crackle and pop of things being sautéed on the stove, and ten minutes later, Dad called me into the kitchen.

The apartment kitchen was big, with one of those giant islands in the middle. Dad had totally filled it with food—bowls of beans, peppers, two kinds of rice, lettuce, tomatoes, and right in the middle, heaping platters of steak and chicken that smelled absolutely amazing. He handed me a plate covered with a big, puffy tortilla.

"Here," he said. "Time for fajitas."

I tried everything. I didn't tell my dad, but I'd never had fajitas before. Mexican food, to me, meant tacos or burritos, the kinds of things they have at Taco Bell. This was new.

"Careful," he said, when I started spooning out pieces of green things that kind of looked like okra. "Those are jalapenos. They're really hot." I only took one, and I cut it up in little pieces. Turns out, I really liked it.

We didn't talk much while we ate. We'd both been starving, and the quality of the food pretty much took all the words out of our heads. Dad was amazing, like, really amazing. He was like one of those people on the Food Network, except more handsome, and I hadn't ever seen any of them cook in a suit. Finally, when I was starting to get full, I set down a half-eaten tortilla and looked at him in appreciation. "This is the best food ever," I said.

"Not bad," he answered, holding up a piece of chicken and scrutinizing it carefully. "I got the mix of spices better than last time."

"How did you learn to cook?" I asked softly, running the words together because I was shy about saying them.

"My mom," he answered. "Nobody knows that. Harold thinks the CIA taught me, the way they taught me how to dance and speak Russian, but I knew how before that. She always said I had a talent for it."

I didn't say anything, but I was so proud I thought I would burst. My dad had told me something nobody knew, not even Mr. H. It felt really good.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Thanks again for all the lovely reviews and messages you keep sending. **


	20. Adoption

Adoption

The day after my dad's amazing dinner, he woke me up really early and sat on the end of my bed in his sweatpants and t-shirt. "Katherine, we need to talk," he said. I was a little bit scared by his serious tone, wondering if I'd done something wrong.

He took my hand and held it. "Harold wants to formally adopt you."

"What?" I asked, my eyes instantly stinging with tears.

Dad just looked at me for a minute. "I—thought you'd be happy. You like Harold."

"But you're my dad!" I said. The words were still new, and they felt a little bit strange, but I said them with all the conviction I could muster. "Do you wish you hadn't asked me to live with you?" I bit my lip anxiously.

"No—no, it's not that," said Dad, smiling. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize you'd be confused. You'll still live with me. It's just that I have some things to do in the next few days that may be dangerous. I'm not going to lie to you. This is to protect you in case anything happens to me, now or later. If I—if you ever needed someone, Harold would take care of you like you're his daughter."

"Oh," I said.

"Just think about it."

"That's ok," I said. "I want to do it."

Dad leaned over and kissed my forehead. "That's my girl. I was hoping you'd say yes. The reason I woke you up early is because Harold has a judge who owes him a favor. He's willing to put us on the docket this morning if we get there by nine. We're meeting Harold for breakfast at seven-thirty to give him our answer.

"Ok," I said, looking over and reading 6:45 on the clock.

After Dad left the room, I looked through Harold's presents and tried to come up with something appropriate for court. I ended up picking a green dress, brown clogs, and a violet scarf that I tied around my neck.

When I came into the living room, I found my dad in his usual suit. He was wearing a violet necktie. "Nice scarf," he said.

"Nice tie," I replied. He smiled, and we left the apartment.

* * *

><p>We found Harold in a booth at his favorite diner. He was also dressed in a black suit, with a red tie and pocket square—a little bit loud for him, I thought. He smiled when he saw us, but I caught a hint of anxiety in his face.<p>

"Tell Harold what you've decided," said Dad as we approached the booth.

"Um," I said, suddenly feeling shy about telling Mr. H. "I—want to," I finished.

Harold stood up and came over to me. "I want you to know that I'm going to mean everything I say to that judge," he said. I did something then that I'd only done once before. I kissed Harold on the cheek, and I enjoyed how red he turned.

"You sure about this, Finch?" Dad teased. I ordered a huge breakfast with waffles, bacon, eggs, and hashbrowns. I ate almost every bite.


	21. Mayhem

Mayhem

The three of us walked into the courthouse at 8:45. I breathed deeply, the way one of my school guidance counselors had taught me to do if I started to feel anxious. As usual, I had underestimated my father's powers of observation. He put a hand on my shoulder, and his touch made me feel calmer.

Only, it didn't last long. We were walking down a marble-tiled corridor when things got confusing. First, I heard someone shout. Then a group of people came running toward us. One of them, a man, I think, was holding something metal. "Get down!" I heard my dad yell, as he pulled me off my feet. I went down so hard I heard my knee crash against the floor.

_Mayhem _was one of my vocabulary words once. Now I knew what it really meant. People were everywhere. Somebody shot the ceiling. Somebody screamed. I felt hands drag me across the tile, and I didn't know if they belonged to my dad or Harold or someone else. My knee hurt so badly I thought I was going to vomit, but somebody shoved something in my face, and I didn't know anything else.

* * *

><p>The first of my five senses to awaken was hearing. Three men were arguing somewhere near me. Judging by their voices, none of them was my dad or Harold. My heart sank.<p>

Sight followed hearing after a few seconds, and I opened my eyes to find that I was lying on a dusty sofa in a dark room. Just as I'd thought, three men were in the corner having a heated discussion. I recognized two of them—a tall, thin one, and a short, muscular one. They were the two guys who had tried to kidnap me at school. The third man was short and balding. I had no idea who he was.

The taller man sounded desperate. "I'm sorry, boss, but if we had stopped to get the other guy, the SWAT team would have picked us up."

"If you'd gone for him to start with and left the girl, you'd have had plenty of time," answered the man I didn't recognize, his voice icy.

"Can't we use her for ransom?" asked the stocky one.

"I don't want ransom," said the balding man wearily. "I want Harold Finch. You two had better be glad this wasn't as much of a mess up as last time. We can use the little girl, but you two are out. You can get back to whatever it is you usually do."

My kidnappers slunk away like naughty children and left the room, and the remaining man, the one they called "Boss," went over to the window. There was only one window, and I could tell by the view of the buildings around that we were on the second or third floor. I couldn't tell where we were in the city.

"Katherine." I closed my eyes, trying to look like I was still under the effects of whatever drug they'd given me.

"I know you're awake," he said. "That stuff doesn't last more than a few minutes. You don't have to talk to me. I just want to say—I'm sorry you're even here. The men I sent to the courthouse were supposed to grab Harold Finch, not you. You were supposed to be a last resort. They went for you because it was easier."

"I don't want to hurt you. I don't want to hurt Harold, either. I just want something he has. That's all. You're going to stay with me until I get what I want. I'm Elias, by the way."

The discrepancy in what he said and how he said it was chilling. His voice sounded like something from children's television, and that made his words all the more disturbing. I clung to the sofa cushions, glad that he didn't show any sign of coming near me.

I wondered how long it would take my dad and Mr. H to find me.


	22. Ingenuity

Ingenuity

Elias sat down on a rusted folding chair and took out a tablet computer. I sat up and counted blue ceiling tiles for a while. I've never had any trouble amusing myself when there's nothing to do, but the anxiety was making it more difficult than usual.

I was glad Elias didn't seem to have any interest in talking to me further. His ringtone was "Ride of the Valkyries" by Wagner, which seemed oddly appropriate. He grabbed his phone out of his pocket as soon as he heard it and barked out, "What is it, Mike?"

Those words were common enough, but they electrified me. Trying not to make noise or move in an obvious way, I felt the side pocket of my dress. The style was one of those dresses with a plan top and really poufy skirt, and the ruffles made the pocket nearly invisible. It's where I had stashed my phone earlier that morning.

Sure enough, my fingers closed around the familiar feeling of metal and shiny plastic. Elias's heavies hadn't been smart enough to search me, or if they had, they'd missed it. I mentally thanked "Mike" for calling Elias and reminding me that I wasn't helpless after all.

My mind raced, and I could feel my hands starting to tremble. I forced myself to focus. All I needed was enough time to punch in a very limited sequence of numbers. Then, if Elias took my phone, it wouldn't matter. He wouldn't be able to access anything on it anyway. Nobody could. The security program on it had been invented by Mr. H.

_No _I thought. _I can do better. _

I waited. Elias sat facing me for half an hour. I've always been good at approximating time, and I was pretty sure. Finally, I heard a noise at the door, and an extremely beautiful woman came into the room. My captor got up and went toward her.

In that second, I pulled my phone out of my pocket, turned it on, and touched the emergency number that Harold had given me. It was seven, his favorite. He had a thing for prime numbers.

Just as quickly, I pushed the phone back into my pocket. Elias left, and the woman sat down in his chair. She nodded uncertainly to me, but she didn't speak. Neither of them appeared to have seen anything I had done.

I sat back into the dirty couch cushions, feeling like I had done my father proud. It might not have been CIA-level stealth, but I had managed to alert Harold without alarming my kidnappers. If I hadn't been so scared, I'd have been filled up with the pleasant glow of success.

Of course, once I had done what I could, I had nothing else to do. I got hungry, but I had no intention of saying anything to the woman, who kept alternately refreshing her lipstick and staring at her iPhone, as if she was as nervous as I was. I imagined that I was back with my aunt and uncle, who hadn't always had enough food when Uncle Robert had spent his paycheck on beer.

That made me realize how different my life had become. It hadn't been very long, but I was already used to the comfort and regularity of my dad and Mr. H, who always provided meals at the right times and never left me alone to take care of myself. I didn't care if we moved around a lot—it was about having Someone, somebody who was always there and always reliable. To my horror, I teared up, and I did my level best to keep from crying.

I couldn't stop myself a moment later, when I heard a voice from behind the door. "This is the NYPD. Open the door, or we'll break it down." Detective Carter. I cried like a baby.


	23. Rescue

Rescue

I was lucky. If the police had arrived while Elias was there, he probably would have threatened to hurt me to try to keep them from coming in. The woman wasn't so fearless, and she threw me out the door in about ten seconds. I guess she thought it would look good on her record if she cooperated.

The first person I saw was Detective Carter, but I didn't even have time to say hi before my dad picked me up with one arm and crushed me in a giant bearhug. He had a huge gun in his other hand, and Carter took it so he could hold me with both of them.

I closed my eyes tightly and smelled his scent and felt the fabric of his shirt against my cheek, letting the feeling of safety wash over me slowly, as all-encompassing as my anxiety had been.

After a few seconds, I realized Dad was saying something over and over—"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." I reached my arms up toward his neck, and he picked me up so that my eyes were on level with his.

I put my hands on each side of his face. "It's my fault," he said breathlessly. I'd never seen him like that. He was always so calm, so self-assured.

I shook my head no. "But I thought you'd be proud. I used the phone like you taught me."

He finally smiled, just the barest ghost of a smile that made the corners of his mouth turn up a tiny bit. "You're a good girl," he said, holding me against his shoulder and carrying me like I was about five years old.

He didn't put me down until we got to a big, black SUV in the parking lot of the building, which turned out to be an abandoned office. "I hope you're not planning to carry me everywhere now," I said drily.

"I will if I want to," said my dad.

The car windows were tinted, but as soon as we got to the door, it flew open, and Harold jumped out faster than I even thought he was capable of moving. He stood in front of me, panting and looking me up and down over and over as if he wanted to make sure I was in one piece.

"Are you all right?" he finally asked.

"Uh huh," I said, hugging him. "Thanks for the cell phone."

"Quick thinking," said Harold. "You should have heard your dad when the location finder activated. I didn't think he was going to be able to do anything. He was too busy talking about how smart _his _daughter is and how brave _his _daughter is." I stole a sideways look at my father. His eyes were studiously fixed on the distant horizon.

I followed Harold into the car and wondered for a second where we were going this time, where we would call home for the night. It really didn't matter, as long as I was with my dad and Mr. H.


	24. The End of The Beginning

The End or The Beginning

I felt like things had come full circle when we stopped at a big, fancy hotel. It was a different one from the one Dad and Harold had taken me to the first day we'd met, but the feeling was the same. It had only been a few days, but I felt like I'd lived the beginning of a whole new lifetime.

When we got out of the car, I was the one who reached for my dad's hand. He smiled.

"You'll be glad to know," said Mr. H from behind us, "that we have someone else to protect. You're safe now."

_I didn't know it then, but Harold's machine had told him, and it was never wrong. A few hours later, we found out that Detective Carter had caught Elias by staking out the place where I'd been held prisoner. He went back to jail, but none of us knew how long it would be before his high-level connections got him out again so that he could go back to chasing the man I loved second most in the world._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Thank you to everyone for all the kind comments and reviews of this story. I've had so much fun writing about Person of Interest and these amazing characters. I wanted this story to introduce them to each other and establish a dynamic. Let me know if you'd like to see a sequel. **


	25. Afterword

If you enjoyed "The Protector's Daughter," check out "The Cipher's Daughter," a companion story about Harold.

Thanks to everyone for reading my stories! I hope you continue to enjoy.


End file.
